Stars

In one of his songs, Jack Johnson sings "there were so many fewer questions when stars were still just the holes to heaven." It's a nice line, in a pretty good song, and has a cool, difficult-to-nail-down-exactly meaning, somewhere along the lines of how modernity blots out some of the value that simplicity used to offer. That idea can take my mind in a good many directions, but right now I'm thinking about the meaning of stars. What, after all, are stars to us? The "modern" answer would be that they are interstellar orbs of flaming gases, billions upon billions of them, huge and rather hostile to life in their immediate qualities, although absolutely necessary to life once removed some odd light seconds away. Sure, people will still talk about how much they like a starry night sky for its own sake, or how they may wish upon a shooting star, or several other more sentimental approaches to the night lights. Still, I'm afraid that if you ask someone to really get down to what a star is, most will shoot right to the burning ball of gas definition, and leave it at that.

Is there a problem in that? Several problems, I think, that give insight into our cultural perceptions. But I'm going to go in a specific direction—or at least, I plan to; as some of my friends know, I have something of a tendency to ramble off subject.

There's a meaning in stars far deeper than their physical/chemical properties. I'm reminded of Eustace's conversation with Ramandu in C. S. Lewis's "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader." It's a short passage that had immediate and lasting appeal for me, for in it, Ramandu—an apparent person—is revealed to be a retired star. The boy Eustace remarks, "In our world a star is a huge ball of flaming gas." Ramandu's response cuts right to the point—"Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is, but only what it is made of." It's a good reminder that we mere men are something more than a result of the G A T C of the genetic code, more than amino acids and carbon chains. Something much more; it's hard to remember how much weightier the spiritual is than the material for those of us living in a mostly physical world, but it's true. Material can never give rise to meaning, just as statements of mere fact can never give rise to statements of value. And if the meaning of a man has little or nothing to do with what he is made of, then why not believe that the meaning of a star has little or nothing to do with what it is made of? I certainly believe it to be so.

Ramandu's place in The Chronicles of Narnia blends oh so well with the role of three characters in another once-and-ever loved book, Madeline L'Engle's "A Wrinkle in Time." And here will come a bit of a spoiler; the three old ladies who guide the Murrays and Calvin O'Keefe are actually stars. Not active stars, of course; the children discover that they sacrificed their star-ness to fight the dark evil ever striving against the Light. It's a lovely part of a lovely story, but rather than trying to reproduce the feeling L'Engle creates, I'll leave it at that; the anthropomorphized stars are now dancing in the heavens no longer, yet still work for Heaven's cause. Do stars really accomplish any moral good? Well, they certainly can give hope; I remember walking through the Highlands of Scotland one night, frustrated with myself. All it took to correct my attitude was the clouds clearing to reveal the pinpricked night's sky, peaceful and constant as always. Of course, perhaps the stars accomplished nothing themselves; they were only an example of God's glorious Creation, a beauty that hints at the beauty of its Creator.
And yet maybe there's some truth in this; every reflection of God's Light, every hint of His peace and constancy, every reminder of His benevolent sovereignty, carries with it a meaning intricately wrapped up in the thing's essence—a meaning that we, who want to touch and take apart something before we grant it importance, miss. Something transcendent. The Psalmist says, "Deep calls to Deep in the roar of Your waterfalls." Now, I don't know quite what that means. But I take it to mean that there is more to waterfalls than falling molecules of H2O. That the meaning of a waterfall is far more than what it is made of. Maybe there's a deficiency in our language: even the words we use suggest a straightforward interpretation of the material world that is clear and simple to grasp. Take the first chapter of the Gospel of John, for example. "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God"…right? Word, Logos in the Greek, means something fairly concrete (at first glance). But Logos itself means something more. It means Reason, Logic, Meaning…it carries the understanding of the essence that makes a thing what it is. A bit less concrete, I'd say. Jesus the Word is not about syllables, but about the nature of meaning. God created through speaking: speaking Truth, I believe, not just syllables. He spoke meaning, and it came to pass…and I think Creation carries a meaning that we often ignore.

Back to stars: cultures have long placed an importance on stars. The constellations of the Greeks are famous; the constellations of other cultures much less so. Did they make stories about the stars, anthropomorphizing them somewhat, because they didn't understand them as well as us? Or because, in some way, they understood them better? It should be remembered that they understood the position of lights in the heavens quite well, and had the math to go along with their understanding—Mayans, Egyptians, and Greeks alike. Their understanding was not primitive, and they understood how vast the heavens were. The mathematician and astronomer Ptolemy wrote around 150 A.D., "The earth, in relation to the distance of the fixed stars, has no appreciable size and must be treated as a mathematical point." Yet we ignore the fact that they had a good grasp on astronomy because the ancients also affirmed that the earth is at the center of the cosmos, a belief that is largely discredited today. However, although we tend to discredit the geocentric view academically, in practical terms we too affirm it. I remember reading recently that some astronomers hoped to observe a large asteroid striking Mars. Would they be so eager if it were to strike earth? Don't they value the cosmic effect of things on the Earth far more than they do effect on other heavenly bodies? Isn't the Earth central in their cosmos, the reference point for all other things? Where would astronomy be if the Earth had never existed? Ptolemy taught it better—and more honestly—than our modern schools, at least in the ways that matter. The meaning, not the physical substance or position, of things is the heavier truth.

This is not to say that position doesn't matter. The position of stars has guided sailors for millennia. But there is a meaning in the position, as well, and the Bible confirms this. The absolute best example of this is the story of the Wise Men coming to visit the newborn King Jesus. The Magi came to Jerusalem, saying, "Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw His star in the east and have come to worship Him." That is a bit unfathomable to our modern ears; astrology foretold the birth of the Son of God. There's a lot here that I'm curious about; but I think the important part is that the study of the stars did pay off in giving true insight into a central event of history. This is astrology, true, and astrology definitely has a bad name in modern Christian circles (perhaps a deservedly bad name, although it should be remembered that astronomy and astrology were synonymous until the Renaissance, or later. And who suggests that astronomy is forbidden?) It was, after all, outlawed in the Old Testament. But of course, so was eating pork, and so was wearing clothes made of more than one material. Yes, it was put into the same category as sorcery, which, I take it, is bad company. However, it's interesting to note that when the apostles called out Simon the Sorcerer, it wasn't for his sorcery; it was for his simony. This is not to say that sorcery is allowed; I, for one, believe it's not. Nevertheless, astrology is not in itself evil…The Wise Men practiced it properly, and brought the Christ three very specific gifts in which God's purposes in Christ were foretold. What was evil about astrology was, perhaps, the same thing that's evil about philosophy, science, nature: the worshiping and idolizing of it. God had fault with a man when he "contrary to My command has worshiped other gods, bowing down to them or to the sun or the moon or the stars of the sky." He certainly didn't fault the Magi for their astrology. This isn't the astrology of horoscopes…this is the astrology hinted at in the Chronicle of Narnia (yes, the Chronicles again!) when, in "Prince Caspian," the boy prince is led by his tutor to a tower in order to observe a momentous sign in the heavens—and elsewhere, where it mentions Centaurs who study the signs in the heavens.

C. S. Lewis had his stars be both anthropomorphic and celestial informants. Matthew 2 shows that the stars are, in fact, informants to those "in the know." Poets, sailors, lovers have thanked the stars for ages. Stars fight, and stars sing: "From the heavens the stars fought, from their courses they fought against Sisera" (Judges 5:20); "while the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy" (Job 38:7). Our modern focus is a bit too telescopic, about stars and so much else. Stepping back and realizing there is meaning in Creation, that the spiritual is weightier than the material, helps us see that the world is far richer than we give it credit for. Focus in on one star, learn all you can about solely it, perceive it with a precision that ignores all else, and what do you have? A fuming ball of chaos, burning and writhing in its throes in the loneliness of space. But...see the whole picture, the heavenly canvas of stars spread across the sky, and you see a divine dance and hear a silver song; individual orbs of fire become a sublime and living testament to their Creator.